Bruised
by Rynnah K
Summary: Bruce is depressed and crazy because of too much sexual tension and Tony is Tony. Basically PWP, moderately dark, contains some violence, drug use and slash. Oneshot.


**A/N: Can one say PWP? This is basically a black hole and doubtlessly improbable, and also contains very terrible grammar in all likelihood. I seriously don't even know. Apparently the only way I can write Banner is as excessively depressed. This is kind of AU I guess in the way that I don't have the Hulk set off by drugs or alcohol or sex in this. So yah, sorry. If y'all are reading In the Night as well, chapter 8 (I think that's what it is) should be coming forth shortly...I hope.**

**Disclaimer: Nope**

**Warnings: Angsty kids, second person POV, an appalling lack of dialogue, language, drug use, men who like each other and m/m sex, of the graphic variety because duh, I'm ridiculous. If you don't like any of the aforementioned things, do not keep reading, you will probably be offended, scarred or most likely both.**

**LETS GET THE PARTY STARTED.**

* * *

You are, and forever will be, in awe of Tony Stark.

It is hard not to be, not from the very first handshake, too-big suit not hiding you nearly enough from the sear of his unflinching gaze, and certainly not now. You are incapable of anything but internal idolatry of this man you now share a life with, who made you accept a home and gives you new purpose each day.

He is beautiful and neurotic and you wish for the days when you could simply leave the description of him in your head at that, but those days are long gone. You cannot remember when, but somehow respect for Tony Stark turned into obsessive cataloguing of your earthly savior—the glitter in his eyes when he is soaked through with alcohol, the pull of something stronger tugging through his valves, the flawless arch of his pale neck, frail in morning light, the obscene moan he makes when stretching out his back, slip of caramel skin at his hips showing under his shirt—turned into a wet mouth on you, dirty words in your ear during the night, messed sheets in the mornings. You cannot remember when you ceased to be able to share common space with him, the terrible heat of him too much for you to resist, but this is where you are now, what it has become.

You watch him now, bent in front of you, muscles flexing over something tiny and invaluable being worked over in his hands, and you look away, try and focus on your work, find you have no idea what you are even working on.

"Distracted again Banner?" His voice is light and you are no longer surprised at how he is constantly aware of you, even when he is focusing on work.

"I'm just," you pause, "a little under the weather." He stops at that, un-hunches from his awkward half-sprawl over the table, sets down his tiny metal patient, and turns on you. You do not like the look in his eyes—it is too curious. You can practically see his neurons rapid-firing, trying to analyze all the data and reach a conclusion. You need him to stop analyzing you, need him to do anything but reach any conclusions about you or your state of mind, would probably give anything just to make him stop looking at you.

It is clear you are heading for some type of mental breakdown. It is clear in the way you flinch when he walks toward you, the way your pulse has absolutely fucking lost itself, taken off like you are running for your life, like there is no air left. He stops in front of you, tilts his head, and you can see a conclusion in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, reaches for you and you have a brief flash of panic where you think _I'm just going to jump out the window, I'm going to have to fucking do it_ and you _feel_ it solidify into a decision in your veins. You feel it, but then it shatters around you like spun sugar, rains down on you, and you are left with no precipitation and a man you cannot touch.

Tony gets out exactly two words, whispers soft and tender, and you know that can't be right because Tony does not _do _tender, even as you hear, "Bruce, what," and his voice caresses your name and you are done.

You stand up abruptly and back up, make sure you don't touch him. You can hear words come out of your throat, hear somebody say, "I really need some air," and then your vision disappears. You find yourself somewhere else sitting on a bench, gulping air through a raw throat, a lit cigarette in your hand. You look around and realize somehow you have made it to Central Park, wonder if you should worry about _blacking the fuck out because that is not normal in the slightest_, and then skip past it, take a drag on the cigarette even though you don't smoke. It's menthol and you choke on it, dry mint scouring your lungs and a man in a leather jacket with huge dragon eyes tattooed on his neck approaches you. The visual cues tug up a memory of something you know how to do, and then you know what you are doing in the park. You discreetly accept an envelope from the man, pull out cash you don't remember taking from an ATM out of your pocket like it is someone else's arm and pocket the envelope.

You feel better this way, deserve to be lost and alone and fucked up, away from Tony so you don't open your mouth or touch him or lose control. Because you will, you know this, can feel it hurtling toward you like an immoveable meteor sent to ruin everyone's dreams forever. You simply hurt so _much_, need him so _much_, everything too much, that you cannot have him at all, in any capacity, or you will not make it.

You decide you cannot go back to the penthouse, not now, with control such a fragile rime in your blood, so you use the bathroom in a sketched out liquor store and snort all of the powder. You breathe it in slow so it burns like funneling battery acid straight into your brain, and the world warps like blown glass into something easier—less pain, less need. You attempt to wander home, moving slow and sticky, eyes wide and drinking in the humanity around you. Alien euphoria licks through you and there is acceptance in how you feel for Tony in your brain when you are like this. There is reciprocity there too, a life you both could share, in the firing parts of your brain that don't light anymore unless you swallow or breathe in opiates.

You lose track after that, after you make up your mind to just tell him, until you see someone who looks enough like him that it takes your breath away. Even dulled under drugs you need him, oxygen to a fire, and before you can stop yourself you are following him into an alley. Your vision cuts and first you lose sight of him, then he is in front of you, then you are on him, a foreign mouth rigid under yours, and then you watch a face you forget is not his beat you until what you are wearing is red more than any other color. There is no emotion on his face, and you feel like you are dying.

Then you are moving again, steps stilted like something is not working correctly even though nothing hurts. Millennia pass and you are in an elevator with bright lights. The drugs are bleeding out of you like a slashed artery and pain is sweeping over you in their wake in great, crippling brushstrokes. You cannot stand anymore and as you fall to the floor you realize you cannot see out of one eye. You squint at the yellow cat eye lamp living on the top of the elevator and your clothes are so sodden with blood they squish. Finally, mercifully, the floor under you stops moving and Tony is there, face huge and ashen and yelling, triple in the sight of your one open eye. None of the Tonys are happy, but you cannot pay attention to them right now, there is too much pain.

* * *

You come to when water splashes on your face. Tony comes into focus first when you open your eyes groggily, lying on your back on the floor in his bathroom still in your bloody clothes, though you are bandaged. He is sitting on the floor near you, cross-legged and frowning down at you.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" His eyes are bright, shiny with something like betrayal, like fear. Maybe. It hurts when he looks at you like that, hurts when he is so close and you shut your eyes, feel yourself pick up a tremor, murmuring down your spine like faulty electrical wiring.

"Are you seriously going to lay there and _ignore me? _Who the fuck did this to you?" He is angry, moving closer to you.

You breathe in, breathe out. Your face feels broken. "Nothing, nobody, I'm fine. I'm sorry about my dramatic entrance." There is no inflection in your voice. You need to leave, cannot do this when you are so shaken and weak, the dregs of oxy making you even more vulnerable than usual.

Suddenly there is a voice hot against your ear, "Bruce. Don't lie to me." You flinch violently at the breath tickling your neck and your eyes pop open. Signals fire down your arms to try and move you away, but the bastards don't listen and Tony is pinning you down anyway.

"Tell me what's wrong," and he is so close to you that Tony Stark is all you see, all you feel and smell and you are shaking hard now, emotions rocketing like a shaken bottle of soda. All of the need and want you suppress and re-suppress on an endless loop of tamping down is breaking through, pulsing through you like electroshock therapy. He is watching you come apart, eyes impossibly dark, and you hate nothing more than yourself at that moment.

"Bruce," he whispers, and brushes against your jaw, soft.

"There's nothing wrong, I'm just, I'm" and you falter as he lowers himself on top of you, just barely pressing against you and he is so fucking warm and you can smell him, you've always loved whatever cologne he wears, even though it is always mixed with chemical and grease too. You know he uses apple shampoo which is so bizarre and not all that manly and as he leans in close to you like he's going to kiss you a whiff of apple catches in your nose and you can't tell if he is joking or not, but you feel like a dragon is about to crawl out of your skin.

You can feel the scratch of stubble against your jaw, the press of his knees on either side of yours as he says, low and lilting into your ear, "I think I can guess what's wrong.

"Tony," you start, and you can't believe how weak your voice is. You can't get any further so you stop and shut your eyes, have to, as you hear, "Please," slip out of your mouth tiny and broken as a blush like a third degree burn lights you up.

The hand brushes against your jaw again, traces down your throat, counting the rings in your trachea like Jacob's ladder leading into heaven, thumbs your clavicle and then moves to your clothes. You attempt to put handholds into the granite floor and do not succeed as buttons slide through cloth and you are made bare. He brushes down your chest, palms flat and softly detouring around your injuries. They catch on your hips, trace them, fingers sliding under your waistband and you cannot do anything but arch into his hands, whimper brokenly and you resolutely refuse to open your eyes. You will not see the disgust in his eyes, would rather die.

The hands against you shake at the noise you make and then Tony is against you, filling your hollows with his body, molding himself to your form. Your eyes open at that, as his octopus-hold on you tightens, hands fluttering against your sides, trying to avoid your injuries. He is huge in your vision, trembling against you. He arches his beautiful, frail neck, and presses his lips to your pulse. He opens his mouth against you and sucks a light bruise onto your skin, swiping a quick lick, tasting you, and you thrust against him without meaning to, are impossibly hard from such high-school activities. Your hands are on him then, scrabbling up his shirt, seeking the heat radiating from every curve of his skeleton, the heat that has been torturing you since the realization that you want him like this, like you shouldn't. You have needed this since it hit you in the face and broke all of your teeth.

Neither of you can say it, so you are both quiet as you tear at each other like someone will come in and pull you apart, throw you in a dungeon barred with a door that has no key. Tony flips you, drags you on top of him and his shirt gapes open where you apparently tore it. You are dizzy with proximity, vision steep with the highest sense of unreality as you lower yourself to his neck and press your lips against his carotid. The rush of his pulse under your lips is heady and you open your mouth against it, bite him softly. You tongue the indents your canines leave and he gasps—fucking gasps—and presses his hips against yours. You two fit together, you _fit_.

Tony's hands are at your waist, rolling you onto your back, all the while insistent at your fly and all thought, all capability of action, flees you as he pops the button and slides the zipper down maddeningly slowly. The teeth catch one at a time and you can do nothing but stare at Tony, a feral look burning in his pitch black eyes, pupils blasted with electric copper threads glowing at their edges.

His hands shake briefly and then he is sliding your pants down, leaving your erection free to jump out ridiculously. You think briefly about how bizarre male anatomy is before all thought disappears entirely as Tony slides your boxers down your hips as well. He stares at you with unbridled lust and you blush under his scrutiny. You are not used to being looked at like this, like you are something mythical and precious, and it hurts. Everything hurts, the need lancing through you violet-white and barbed. You can barely remember the last time you were with a woman, cannot place the year it occurred in, cannot remember ever wanting anybody like this.

He breathes out, whispers, "Fuck," before moving over you like a fucking porn star, lithe and wicked, hands everywhere, and you are so turned on you are in a fog, sensations cutting out.

Tony strokes you roughly, dips a nail into your slit and whispers in your ear, "Let me hear you." You moan way louder at that than you mean to and feel Tony smile against your neck as his hands dance lower. He presses your legs further apart and you feel a finger pressing into you and you snap. You cannot do the foreplay anymore, are losing it too fast. You grab Tony's shoulders, pull him down against you roughly and then push him onto his back. You slam your weight onto him and hiss in his ear, can't say it any louder, "Get in me now Tony. Fucking now, you understand me?" Your hands shake but you manage to rip his shorts off, his boxers shortly after and you take him roughly in your hand, run your thumb over his head, hands slick with precome and Tony moans.

"Shit Bruce." He presses you back, hops up and is back with lube before your brain registers his absence. You are writhing on the floor and it is only when Tony swats your hand away that you realize you are jerking yourself slow and hard, completely out of it. You moan as Tony presses fingers back into you hard, stretching you fast in widening circles. You slide your ass back onto his scissoring fingers and you can't wait anymore.

"_Tony_, you, I—I-_I_," and all your words are gone as you feel him slide in. The burn spreads through you fast like a wildfire and you feel like probably you won't make it; you'll break open instead. You groan low in your throat, guttural with pain and then Tony is there with eyes huge with concern. He runs a comforting hand against your neck and kisses you on the mouth. He sucks at your lower lip and you moan into him because even though everything hurts, you need this. He shifts his hips up and your breath catches. You fit your face into the hollow of his throat and he doesn't say anything when a tear slides down it.

"Bruce, I can pull out, we don't h-" and you don't want to hear it, run your hands up his back and dig your nails into his spine instead, revel in the feel of him shiver.

You arch into him and he moans against you. "Tony, I need you to move, you aren't going to break me" and it comes out more irritated than you mean. You open your eyes and see his expression fill with something devilish as he pulls out to the tip and slams into you, hitting your prostate. You flop onto your back, boneless, as a shower of stars flares behind your eyes. You open your mouth and are too far gone to be embarrassed by the whimper that comes out.

Tony keeps slamming into you, groaning something entirely undistinguishable low in his throat. You manage to open your eyes and the image of Tony Stark fucking you into the floor flashes through you like you're watching from outside of your body and as he slams into your prostate again you come without warning, splattering all over the both of you. You get out a breathy moan of, "Tony," and he opens his eyes, locks onto yours and you feel him come inside of you breathlessly. He thrusts twice more and then pulls out, bracing himself over you. You stare at him in terror, helpless to what happens now, what he does now. He could make you leave forever but as you stare into his eyes you realize they're the most vulnerable you can remember them being. You brush an exhausted hand up his jaw, thread it through his thick hair, tug slightly.

He lowers himself over you and licks at your neck, whispers, "You only say that because you're already broken."

Lying naked on the floor, tangled in Tony, flushed and sweaty and covered in come, you realize that isn't as true as it was four hours ago. You bite your lip at the cliché as you think it, but make yourself say it anyway. "I'm bruised, not broken Tony," you whisper back.

He tucks his nose into your clavicle, and you can feel the edges of his lips pull upwards.

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**I would love to hear what y'all think. I'm still pretty new to all of this, but seriously it is ridiculous how much I write about these two and depressing times=depressing fics haha.**

**Lots of love kids.**


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